


Years past, Years Down the Line

by Ysmiyr



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Confident Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Light Angst, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, dont @ me, if that a thing, im working on the physical buff, this is very self serving guys, this was inspired by the Buff! Jaskier movement but i chose to go for the... emotional buff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysmiyr/pseuds/Ysmiyr
Summary: Five times Jaskier helps Geralt grow, and one time he does it by himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 127





	Years past, Years Down the Line

**Author's Note:**

> So! This is really just me wanting to see an actually uplifting Geralt arc, and that's it. That's the fic. Also please keep in mind that I do NOT hate Yennefer, I do like her a lot but in no rendition of their relationship do I see her and Geralt begin anything but toxic to each other. So... enjoy?

The thing with Jaskier was that he knew the terror of the world. He knew the cruel breaths that anticipated an execution, knew the metallic tang of guilt and grief, heartbreak and rejection. He knew it all, knew it so well he could and had written dozens upon dozens of ballads about those very themes.  
  
His smile was still untarnished by all the bloodshed.  
  
Geralt knew that Jaskier wasn't a delicate flower, very far from it. He knew the bard was as vicious and dangerous as any wolf, maybe even as twisted and cruel as the very men he usually fought against, bared teeth and snarling as a wounded animal.  
  
But he was so _kind_.  
  
Maybe it was inherent human nature, something all humans did just like their neighbours, but Geralt didn't think so. Jaskier's kindness always smelt different from anyone else's; his laughter and his mirth a warm blanket over his feet in a cold night rather than the rash flash of sunlight that followed his nights on a dungeon, like most people's were.  
  
He was so _misleading_ , without even seeming to intend to.  
  
His loud clothes were puffy in all the right places to make him non-threatening, always soft and perfumed as if to nod that he is but nothing more than a spoiled noble. Only Geralt seems to see the blood under his nails, the scars on his arms, the steel behind his eyes. Only Geralt seems to see bravery and courage where everyone else sees cowardice and bravado.  
  
Jaskier is soft the way leather was soft after too much wear, the way linen feels after a lifetime of use. He was gentle the way autumn wind is, the way early morning sun always hits. There was chaos to be found within him, but not as much as he liked to pretend; there was much more stillness hidden in the nights they spent away from any other soul, a calm peace lulled by Jaskier's humming voice, as soothing a space as his meditative trances are.  
  
Jaskier is restless, unrelenting and _infuriatingly_ stubborn but Geralt finds in him a type of steadiness he hasn't found anywhere else. There is order to the bard's mess, systematic in the way nature tends to be; predictable, even, if you pay attention.  
  
Geralt finds he can't _not_ pay attention.  
  
He doesn't know why Jaskier is the way he is, he doesn't know if all humans can be like that or if Jaskier came a little twisted in the head. It doesn't matter though.  
  
No one ever smelt like Jaskier does.  
  
He looks at the bard sleeping across the campfire from him, sprawled like a starfish and mouth hanging open. Even then, the softness of his off-white chemise clashes against the dark hair on his chest, against the forearms that strain the embroidered puffy sleeves. The low light of the fire makes him soft around the edges Geralt knows to exist; his bony elbows and sharp collarbones are gentled by the dancing light, his trimmed and combed hair falling in disarray with his fringe flopping against its growth direction.  
  
Years past, Geralt had bawled at the bard's presence.  
  
Years down the line, Geralt can't imagine a life where he doesn't have the certainty of sky blue eyes waiting for him to wake up.

  
  
\----

  
  
Geralt knows better than to blame Jaskier for his melancholy and his perchance to the dramatic, but it's difficult to feel anything other than flowing lines of emotion swirling behind his teeth, banging on his eyes to let them out when Jaskier treats him so carefully, so gently, as if he wasn't already broken and shattered and under no danger of breaking again.  
  
Jaskier sees his cuts, he sees his scars.  
  
He sees far more scars than are visible to the naked eye.  
  
He treats those too, even if he doesn't mention them. He flips through them all, asking the story behind them just as he did with his visible ones, eyes wide and searching, attentive and achingly soft and Geralt feels a very different type of magic under that gaze.  
  
Years past, Geralt hid violently and cowardly from the prodding eyes.  
  
Years down the line, Geralt preens under the attention, bares his throat and waits for the judgment that will never come.

  
  
\---

  
  
Jaskier had strength in him that Geralt never saw it's equal.  
  
Both in the way he could shoulder pain and heartbreak, and in the way the could shoulder Geralt's weight as if he _hasn't any_. His strength is quiet, hidden beneath layers upon layers of well-placed facades while he plays the court game even among the common man. It is quiet while he downs another man with some well-placed jabs in pressure points, when he sweet-talks their way out of prison or into higher pay.  
  
And for all its quietness, Geralt finds it all the more addicting.  
  
There is something about the quiet confidence that takes to prance about looking like Jaskier does, _talking_ like Jaskier does and never feel inadequate despite what everyone else says. There is something in the gaze of a man that has no war within himself to worry too much about the wars raging outside him. Geralt knows that he, himself, is not one of those men. He knows that maybe he doesn’t deserve to cling so hard to someone so strong that it bypassed all need of external input, he doesn’t have the rights to drag Jaskier down with him.  
  
But the thing was, most of the time it didn't felt like he was dragging the bard down anywhere else but his own mind. If anything, Jaskier was pulling _him up_ by the scruff of his neck like a newborn kitten by the simple quiet assurance Jaskier always had; it never faltered because it was real, because it was solid, and Geralt felt a drive inside him he didn't feel since his first trials to do _better,_ to push harder. But this time it wasn't a line that run by according to whomever else he has competing with. There _wasn't_ any competition this time.  
  
Years past, Geralt couldn't look in the mirror and not wish to see anything other than the yellow eyes staring back.  
  
Years down the line, Geralt came to own a pocket mirror. Simple and silver, and not acquired as a present given to him by someone else.

  
  
\----

  
  
There is a certain kind of confidence that is born when you walk around with someone that has unshakeable faith in you.  
  
The feeling is so alien to him that the first time he felt it, Geralt had snapped and growled at the bard until he was pushed into a tavern and given a mug of ale. Jaskier doesn't seem to know _exactly_ what he was thinking, but the no-nonsense actions and firm pushes makes Geralt calm down enough to see the feeling for what it is.  
  
It was been so long since he felt it that he forgot the bubbling high on his stomach wasn't a poison reaction. I has been so long Geralt feels short on breath when he realizes just what is bouncing around inside his chest.  
  
When they leave the town the next morning, Jaskier is energetic and singing loudly enough to be heard thee towns over about Geralt's run-in with a succubus he refused to kill. He is singing with his legs tucked to one side of his horse, doublet shoved under the saddlebags and the quill he had been using jammed atop his ear. He looks radiant, and he smells like wet earth, sunshine and wine, like an afternoon spent lazily on the dunes near a beach.  
  
His voice carries, pitch-perfect but lower than it usually is, and Geralt listens to the twisted version of events of that night.  
  
But the thing there was, the events weren't _actually_ twisted.  
  
Jaskier barely mentioned the succubus at all.  
  
Half the song the bard is singing praises to his morals and the other half he is waxing poetic about his skills with his _words_.  
  
Years past, Geralt aggressively stopped anyone that said he was anything other than a monster.  
  
Years down the line, Jaskier sings of him as a hero and Geralt tilts his head up to the sun and smiles.

  
  
\----

  
  
Thirty-eight years after Renfri, Blaviken comes back to haunt Geralt.  
  
He always expected it to happen, really. He was more surprised it took so long to get him. The woman's face is horrified, but her husband is livid when he points his knife again to the door.  
  
“We don't need your kind here, Butcher. This village is doing just fine without another slaughter. Leave before we take payment for what you did the old way.” His voice is dripping with disdain and hatred and he smells like burnt flesh. Geralt spares one second to tug at Jaskier's sleeve and turns on his heels, out the door.  
  
Later, when the moon is high up above them and their fire is steadily burning, when their bellies are filled with salted venison and berries, Jaskier shuffles closer to Geralt plopping down on his bedroll like he belongs there. Geralt doesn't take his eyes off the fire but offers the bard the waterskin he was fiddling with.  
  
They stay silent for a while longer and Geralt starts relaxing despite himself.  
  
“You didn't seem surprised, back there.” Jaskier says. His voice is as close to flat as he can get, but Geralt hears the question loud and clear.  
  
“I wasn't.” Jaskier hums, lightly leaning on the witcher's right side. He doesn't say anymore, but Geralt can feel his gaze, his attention. He knows he can drop the subject and never speak of it again, but Jaskier's hands are firm on his shoulder, his body radiating heat in a way that makes Geralt want to curl up under his ribcage and never leave. He knows Jaskier won't push, he never does, but suddenly Geralt feels like he will choke if he doesn't speak,  
  
“My mistakes have cost a lot to many people.”  
  
He is expecting a hum again, a hug even, but not Jaskier nonchalant tone,  
  
“So?”  
  
Geralt turns his head with a frown, startled out of his self-pity. “My choices have cost people's _lives_.” Jaskier sighs, rubbing his hands against the tense shoulders of the witcher.  
  
“I make a lot of mistakes. Sometimes it costs me money. Sometimes it costs me time or my reputation.” He shrugs, “Your mistakes didn't cost people's lives, Geralt. And even if in some other scenario that is true, you didn't intend for that to happen. It is an unfortunate turn of events, but how long will you be self-flagellating over it?” His voice is almost a whisper, and the rhythm of his hands doesn't falter. Geralt swallows around a tight throat and find he can't do more than shake his head.  
  
“It is my fault.”  
  
“If I keep regretting all of my mistakes, then I won't live.” Jaskier points, bringing his head down to rest against Geralt's downturned one. “I like my life now. I don't want it sullied by my guilt.” He says. It's the last thing he says all night, and he doesn't move anymore either. Geralt tries to find a way to prove the bard wrong, to showcase just how monstrous he was, to make him understand.  
  
But there is a voice inside his head saying softly, gently, _that is not true_. He doesn't know what he expected to hear, but the voice sounds just like his own.  
  
Years past, Geralt sometimes went starving for months out of some sense of righteous self-punishment.  
  
Years down the line, Geralt unclenches his hands and let the tears wash away his guilt.

  
\---

  
It is when they meet Yennefer again, some four years after the incident on the tavern, that Geralt finds what he had been missing to quiet the restlessness inside his head.  
  
He leaves Jaskier at the market, a brush of his fingers to the cuff of the bright golden doublet all the warning he gives before marching off to the mayor's house. Jaskier doesn't follow him then, but Geralt has an unshakeable certainty that the bard knows where he is going and maybe even what he is going to do.  
  
When Yennefer opens the door, she is scowling. When she looks at him from the top of his head to the tips of his boots, her expression smoothes out and he doesn't feel one ounce of the inadequateness he usually did when she did that.  
  
“Yen.” He tips his head to the side and waits. Her eyes are still running on his form, looking for _something_ and Geralt feels almost giddy with the knowledge that he doesn't fear her judgment, doesn't want to bend himself backwards just to have her approval.  
  
“In.” Is all she says, and even when Geralt feels a prodding on this temples he is centred enough to push it out of his head, firmly. He does go in though, because this might take a while and he wants to sit down for it. The velvet chair near the fireplace is much more comforting when Geralt feels secure knowing that all his actions, al his thoughts are _his_ , and his alone. That he can say no without fearing this will cause her disapproval like it was the worst thing he could ever feel.  
  
“Is your bard dying again?” She asks, voice flat but Geralt sees her hesitation, her uncertainty. It doesn't make him glad to see Yennefer so wrong-footed, but he knows what he needs to do.  
  
"I want to talk to you.” He states clearly, staring right back at her violet eyes and keeping his mind easily closed off.  
  
“Then talk.”  
  
  
When he returns to the inn later that night, Jaskier is in their room with a bowl of soup next to him. He stares into the fire until Geralt joins him in the other chair, and when he looks up his eyes are wide and searching.  
  
“You look... relaxed.” He says, and Geralt sees hesitation in him, too. He reaches for the bard's hands, and Jaskier lets him with not a single tensing of his muscles.  
  
“I talked with Yennefer.”  
  
Jaskier is silent a moment, before carefully asking, “Just talked?”  
  
“A much needed talk.” The witcher nods, squeezing Jaskier's hands. The bard squeezes back, frowning a little.  
  
“And this?” He motions to their linked hands. Geralt threw his gloves on the bed as soon as he stepped inside, and the feeling of skin beneath his bare fingertips suddenly feels much more intimate than it probably should.  
  
“It's yours, if you still want it.”  
  
Jaskier blinks. A lifetime seems to pass. Then he smiles, eyes pale and glassy reflecting the movement of the fire.  
  
“There will never be a day I don't long for it, dear.” He murmurs, and Geralt slides to his knees to be closer to the scent of honey and lemon and woodsmoke.  
  
“I'm sorry for the wait.” he offers. Jaskier's smile grows and Geralt finds he can't not mirror him.  
  
“I would wait for you for a thousand years, Geralt.” His voice melts the witcher into the small rug beneath him, hands moving to grasp at his forearms instead. “What changed?”  
  
Geralt hears the question the bard really wants to make, hears all the little implications Jaskier is thinking about. He shakes his head, leans forwards to press a kiss to the red cheek in front of him and murmurs pressed against the feverish skin,  
  
“Me.”  
  



End file.
